The Emperor's Party
by Jonathon Oak
Summary: Emperor Chot loves a good party. So does his nephew, family embarrassment and general layabout, Faros es-Kalin. However beneath the drinks, festivities and music, a storm cloud is slowly gathering strength, threatening to break over the Blood Sea Empire of the Minotaurs... Read and review, or I'll see you in the Arena.


Emperor Chot liked quite a few things in life. A good fight, a good joke, good wine and good food, a good looking female to keep him warm at night, good weather for riding and hunting, a good axe in his hand…

Above all, though, the emperor loved a good party. And those he held frequently. Usually in the great hall, where the finely crafted mosaics of past heroes and emperors could gaze proudly at the emperor and his court, reminding all of the inherent might of all minotaurs. Sometimes, especially in the summer when the air was pleasantly warm, he would host his parties within the palace gardens. There the sweet scents of the exotic plant life Chot had collected wafted in the air with the smells of rich cooking, the mellow notes of music and the babble of conversation. More than a few much more private parties (in which most of the guests were young and female) were supposedly held in Chot's own chambers. Those were rumoured to have been especially wild and could last most of the night and often into much of the next morning.

Tonight however the emperor had chosen the ballroom for his latest celebration, the occasion's excuse being the recent completion of yet another statue of him to be sent as a gift to a recently established colony on the shores of Ansalon. Compared to most it was rather restrained, almost courtly, with the guests largely being family and clan members, Chot's retainers and high-ranking members of court, plus a few others who were simply there on an imperial whim. Food arrived in a near constant stream from the kitchens in plenty of plates, bowls and platters of gold and silver, with rich wines, meads and exotic fruit juices literally by the gallon and served in jewel-encrusted goblets. On a platform carved from the finest pink marble with soft white veins, a small band played a slow, constant rhythm to which the guests danced, a young female with a voice that was strong and pure singing an ancient ballad of Makel and his exploits. The emperor sat on a large throne of expensive hard wood gathered from all over the empire and padded with imported fabrics, expertly carved into the image of a condor with stretched wings. Its eyes were polished jets the size of a fist, into which two rubies were set that gleamed in the light. So well was it carved that it looked ready to take off in flight at a moment's notice, kept from doing so only by the Emperor's bulk.

It was, for Chot, a very modest display of wealth.

But so long as he kept the wine flowing and his father did not insist on making him chat for hours to ancient clan elders and imperial officials, Faros es-Kalin could not care less. Sat on a bench with a goblet of rich wine from one of the more southern colonies in his hand and his head rested lazily on the other, his foot tapping in time with the beat of the music, the emperor's nephew made the most of his night. Mainly by getting as royally pissed as he could until he thought he could slip away into the city proper and find his own entertainment.

Uncle Chot could be fun and all, but Faros was never made for imperial gatherings. Too formal, too stuffy, too many heated glances from his father whenever Faros slipped up in front of the clan patriarch or got too indulgent with the drinks. And gods help him if he was caught gambling: he'd received very strict words indeed about that, enforced by clouts behind the ears whenever words alone were thought not to be effective. Big parties like this were definitely more Crespin's thing, which was only proper with him being the eldest son. A lot of these nobles and their relatives would be people he'd have to work with when Father passed on, and connections made that night could last for generations afterwards. A lot of pressure. It was something Faros could not really bring himself to begrudge his brother on.

Let Crespin shoulder the responsibilities of the family and inherit all the Sargas-damned rubbish that went with it. Just so long as it left Faros free to enjoy himself, his brother could have as much of it as he fancied.

Faros belched, covering his mouth with a hand and glanced over towards the crowd to see if anything interesting was going on with them. There wasn't much, mostly just various other clan members being all courtly, rigidly divided into strict factions and openly glaring at each other from across the room. The Sargonites were glaring at the Kiri Jolothians, the Mithans were trading daggers with the Kothians, the colonists were making rude gestures at the Imperials and the royal favourites were receiving it all from everyone. Occasionally one would approach the other directly, exchange very heated words and, if things were particularly heated, a formal challenge at the Arena would be issued, to the general satisfaction of all. Especially Chot. Chot loved a good game as much as anyone, if not more so. Entertainment aside, it was nevertheless the proper way to conduct politics. Talking falsely and bandying about with insincere pleasantries was for weaker races, like the elves or the humans. Minotaurs were direct and honest. They made their opinions plain and their reactions to those opinions plainer still.

It was how it should be. A minotaur shied away from nothing.

It was then that he spotted his father, Gradic es-Kalin, standing tall and proudly amidst a small group of imperial officers and engaged in a deep conversation. Their breast plates glinted in the golden lights of the candles and their long cloaks were pushed back past their shoulders, something that would have allowed easy access for swords and axes were there any to grasp. Uncle Chot was rather paranoid about letting anyone but his most loyal and trusted bodyguards carry weapons about his person. Even his own brother was not permitted so much as an eating dagger. Himself, Gradic was dressed in a less martial uniform, with a deep green tunic, a blue cloak and a kilt bearing the colours of clan Kalin. Every now and then his father would glance in Faros' direction, his dark eyes glinting in the light. The expression on his muzzle was a mixture between expectation and satisfaction.

Faros felt a sinking feeling in his stomach and he couldn't blame it on how much he'd been drinking. Even with the words being drowned out by the music and ambient noises, he could guess exactly what it was his father and the officers were discussing. Lord knows Gradic had that talk often enough; he was trying once again to secure Faros some sort of position in the Imperial Army or the Navy. It was something that came up with every get together, reunion, celebration and party the family wound up attending. Almost as soon as they were announced by the herald, off Father would go to the nearest member of the brass in hopes of finally getting Faros out of the family estate and onto a ship bound to some backwater colony or a Legion sent to guard the borders against goblins or kender.

Maybe if he laid low for the rest of the evening he could avoid the Talk entirely and wait out at a friend's place until it all died down again when the next dispatch was sent without him attending it.

So he did just that, picking up his goblet and what contents remained in it and stumbled somewhat blearily to a more hidden corner, mixing unseen with the crowds until a suitably deserted table was found. Pulling up a chair, which had been tastefully carved from an exotic golden wood into the shape of a roaring lion with its gaping fanged maw forming the padded backrest, Faros sat down wearily and drained his goblet, the tang of the wine sweet against his tongue. The music had changed he suddenly noticed, filtering into a softer, less intrusive ambient music, and the dance floor was clearing, everyone heading to their tables or to the food table. That was to Faros' pleasure; the added bulk of bodies would obscure him more from view.

It was then that the herald, somewhat unexpectedly, hurried to the door, looking a little flustered and cleared his throat.

"General Hotak de-Droka of the Rearing Warhorse Legion, returning from his campaigns in Blöde, accompanied by his wife, Lady Nephera de-Droka, and his children, Lords Ardnor, Bastion and Kolotihotaki de-Droka and Lady Maritia de-Droka."

Two figures emerged from the doorway first, arm-in-arm, and walking proudly and stubbornly down the plush red carpet through the main doors of the ballroom, both holding their horns high and their eyes smouldering as they returned every gaze sent their way. Faros recognised General Hotak de-Droka only after a moment's thought; it had been a fair few years since the rising star of the Droka clan had been sent to the borders to fight ogres on a campaign everyone knew was supposed to have been suicidal, and evidentially his fighting had made its mark on him. For one thing, he was now missing an eye, the corresponding side of his face still obviously healing and the patch that covered it fresh. Not only that but he seemed somewhat taller, prouder and almost defiant as he marched down with his mate on his arm, dressed in his martial finery and wearing an empty harness that had once carried an axe. Chances were he'd originally intended to carry one into the part itself, only be stopped by the Palace Guards.

Faros wondered what convinced him to give it up. Hotak was a minotaur as proud as they came; he would not have surrendered his weapon lightly.

His mate glided elegantly behind him, her mane flowing behind her like the dress she wore, an elegant and fashionable piece that was coloured in soft lavender purple and accentuated with silk patterns that suggested sea waves and ships that were highlighted with pearls. Hotak's wife was wide renowned as one of the Imperium's most beautiful females, with large brown eyes, a defined muzzle, soft fur and broad, child-giving hips. It was well known that the two had been passionately in love since their wedding day, and that the cause of strife between Hotak and the Emperor had been when Uncle Chot, in a drunken stupor, dishonoured Nephera in front of the entire court with suggestions of adultery. Some even said that Chot had attempted to force her into his chambers.

Hotak had very nearly been killed in the Arena the following day, the show of mercy by the victorious Chot adding further insult to injury. The rift had only grown wider since then, especially following Chot's increasingly obvious attempts to get the Droka killed in some distant battlefield.

All in all, Faros found the story lost its interest after the fiftieth retelling. It was old. Nearly older than he was. Which, consequently, made it highly irrelevant to him. Highly irritating too. It was getting to the point that he couldn't even get into certain taverns, brothels or gambling dens because all the Drokas who frequented them were itching for a fight with some Kalin-spawn.

Blood was thicker than water, after all.

Their children followed shortly afterwards, all dressed smartly in Imperial legion regalia, all except Maritia who was still in a civilian noble's garb, although most suspected she'd go for a soldier herself. She'd inherited her mother's beauty, Faros suddenly noticed as his eyes strayed to certain areas in particular, with the same broad hips, flowing mane and graceful movements. Her eyes were her father's, however. Hard, unyielding and fierce.

For many, Faros included, that was just an added bonus. A female with fire in her was more of a challenge, which, as common belief went, meant more satisfying bedding.

Chot remained seated as the family approached his throne, although he sat up a bit straighter and his expression grew from one of idle amusement into cold, piggish malice, his eyes quite openly lingering on Hotak's mate. For her part, she ignored him as the pair offered a stiff bow, followed shortly and no more enthusiastically by their children. Ardnor looked to be quivering with barely suppressed rage, while Bastion's face was coolly neutral. Maritia and Kolot both looked as though they'd been eating rancid lemons for an hour beforehand.

There was silence for a moment, even the band having decided that now was not the time for accompanying music. For his part, Faros wished he had gotten a better seat. It was hard to get a good view thanks to the bloated form of Tost es-Farin the Elder lounging in front of him on the other table. Unfortunately he had grown too settled himself to move, so he was stuck with just the audio and the few of Tost's fat back.

Good thing Chot knew how to make himself heard even while drunk. Faros could imagine what it'd probably look like anyway.

"I see…" Uncle Chot said ponderously, his tongue tripping over his words slightly. "That you have returned from the ogres' homeland with your head intact, General de-Droka. How very licky…lucky of you."

Hotak glowered for a moment, before responding. "It was not because they weren't trying. Your Majesty," he added, the style being said with some reluctance. "As my lost eye shall attest. And there were hundreds of others who weren't so fortunate. The soil of Blöde is bloated with their blood."

"They gave their lives for the good of the Imperium," Chot said, dismissively flicking his hand. "As any good soldier would want."

"I fail to see how a few acres of unfertile scrubland could possibly be of benefit to anyone," Hotak said, his ears flat against his head. "But I suppose we all have to trust in your wisdom."

Perhaps it was just the wine, but Faros swore there was a hint of sarcasm in Hotak's voice.

"A good soldier doesn't question his betters, Hotak. You know that." Chot's finger wagged disapprovingly. "But come now. You have to returned to us! The triumphant hero! Someone bring the man of the hour a drink and something to eat. And get the band to play! This is supposed to be a party! Yet here we are glaring at each other as though on the battlefield. I won't have that."

Chot's voice hardened. "I won't have that at all."

Nephera chose that moment to bow her head and speak. "You speak the truth, my lord," she said smoothly, her tones sounding a lot more sincere than Hotak's had been. "And we come in peace and trust to offer you our supplications and best wishes. Although much distrust has grown between our clan and the Throne, I assure you that Clan de-Droka is ready to take the correct course of action to settle the events of the past. For now, we seek only to celebrate my husband's glorious victory over the ogres and the prosperity of the Empire and its rightful Emperor."

"I always did like your missus, Hotak," Chot said, with a lecherous smirk. "Not just a pretty face is she?"

"She is not." Now there was a strain to Hotak's voice even Faros in his drunken stupor could pick up on.

"Lucky dog. Lucky, lucky dog. Well off you go, you little lovebirds. And your children too. Enjoy my hospitality and gratitude to your hearts' content."

And with that the de-Droka family bowed deeply, retreated and dissolved into the party at large. Slowly the music and the conversation started up again, although the tone of both was a little more forced than it had been before. The tentative air remained for a long while afterwards, hanging like a storm cloud over their heads and threatening hard rain and thunder. Casting his gaze absently towards the room at large, Faros noticed that the factions occupying the room had been redrawn. Suddenly, instead of lots of little factions, there were two big factions. Or rather one large faction and a cluster of others whose only unifying trait was that they weren't part of the larger one. The larger faction, he saw, seemed to resolve around Hotak and his wife like a wheel around its hub. Faros imagined he should probably reflect on that, as it seemed important.

He didn't. He got another drink instead, and then stumbled off to find a good dice game.


End file.
